


If/Else, If/Then

by dmajor7th



Category: Halt and Catch Fire, Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Don’t thank me for the plot thank Larry and Serge, Gavin Belson’s insatiable ego, Implied Sexual Content, Internet History, Joe MacMillan’s unappeasable restlessness, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Period piece - late 90s - 2000s, Post-canon (Halt and Catch Fire), Pre-canon (Silicon Valley), Slow Burn, rating and tags may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-06-02 06:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmajor7th/pseuds/dmajor7th
Summary: "I know how to make it work." he declares with an unwavering confidence that Joe remembers once knowing. "I know exactly how to make Search work. And I'm going to make it happen."Something in Joe starts pulsing — something that doesn’t quite have a name but that lives within every animal. Something before the fight or flight response, the thing that takes you from being ensconced in a dreamless sleep to fully alert with a pounding heart."And how exactly do you envisage that going, Gavin?"Or: How Hooli came to be and what Joe MacMillan had to do with it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [digitaldetritus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digitaldetritus/gifts).



The cheekbones of his sleeping face cuts a realisation through Joe’s acrid, multi-substance hangover — he should have checked the boy's ID before offering him the ride home.

But he shouldn’t have been in the club anyway, clearly having slipped passed the doorman with a fake driver’s licence and a winning smile — the same shit Joe pulled when he was seventeen and reckless and out for adventure.

Joe leaves the guy curled up in the goose feather comforter as he gets up with a stretch and heads towards the kitchen, arms held high and praising the sun. The smell of the prairie oyster makes him retch so he knocks it back with a pinch to the nose, the ice water chaser burning all the way down. He makes his way to the living room and flops without ceremony onto the couch, a pair of frozen teaspoons in hand to cover his eyes with.

Joe's weight sinks into the puff of cushions, every muscle leadened with bad decisions, every cell of his liver on damage control. This, perhaps, is Samsara. Or Karma. Possibly both.

Just as the first major throb of today's migraine sears its way into his consciousness, Joe hears the soft pad of hesitant footsteps echo through the hallway. Joe lifts a teaspoon to look at the trouble he’s gotten himself into.

The guy clasps his elbow with a tentative hand and fails to hide his hairless chest with a skinny arm. This puts to rest any hope in Joe’s mind that he was old enough to know what the fuck he was doing — the tacky yin-yang tattoo on his hip does nothing to help.

Joe makes to say what he needs to kick him out, but—

“Beautiful place you got here.” he tries, voice rough round the edges from last night. Joe agrees — it _is_ a beautiful place.

“The Bodishiva on the nightstand especially.” the boy continues. “Looks original. Rare to see such a statue outside of museums in the West, least of all waking up to one staring down its nose at you.” he concludes with an awkward smirk that tumbles into not quite a laugh.

The silence that grows thicker between only seems to embolden the boy—he takes a step forward and holds out a daring hand, refusing to be ignored.

“I'm—”

“Your pants are in the kitchen.” Joe says and puts the teaspoon back over his tired eye.

The guy _finally_ takes the hint and the front door slams shut, leaving in its wake a booming echo of thankful silence.

* 

Even pure mountain air can go stale in the lungs, and Joe has been holding his breath for too long.

Summer break finishes all too quickly, and Joe’s home from the first of many school days that'll be just like the rest. When he musters up the energy he will pour himself a drink. 

Routine itself seemed like an adventure once, like bouldering up towards an alpine summit in search of peace. But it’s only been two years and the itch he thought he’d soothed for good with the balm of a fixed timetable and a steady paycheck burns away at his skin.

There are rumours that Yahoo have indexed the entire internet. There are rumours that Yahoo have acquired another company. There are rumours that Yahoo will launch a messaging system so powerful it will disrupt email as we know it.

Joe never quite got a taste for smoking, but he keeps a carton of Marlboro Red in the same shoebox of post-it notes he could never find it in his heart to get rid of. His fingers itch to open the draw, to pick up the box, to shake out everything that ever was and could have been onto the hardwood floor...but then what? Cry? Laugh? Burn everything to the ground like he has before?

Typing searches into Yahoo, it turns out, is a lot like smoking—a dirty habit you can’t drop, no matter what you tell yourself. He searches for things he needs to know and things he doesn’t. Things that have no meaning to him and things that hurt to think about. 

Just like every other night, _Cameron Howe_ comes up with the same five news articles that he’s read dozens of times. He searches for himself and it’s the same. No news, nothing changing—nothing to report of the stagnant water that is his reputation.

He searches for Gordon and it hurts every time. 

His eye catches the reflection in his monitor of the laughing buddha, who sits silently on his mantle piece.

*

The phone call was unexpected, the offer even more so.

_“As I’m sure you’re aware Mr. MacMillan, the Karl Taylor Compton Lecture Series aims to provide the MIT community direct contact with the important ideas of our times and with people who have contributed much to modern thought. Unfortunately we’ve had a last minute cancellation and so would like to invite you to present a lecture on the Future of Search. The standard format is 80 minutes with a slide show, followed by 20 minutes of Q &A at your discretion. There is an open bar afterwards.” _

Somewhere deep down Joe knows he is affronted, being called in from the sidelines as a last minute afterthought. His old self would have slammed the phone down, would have responded with more anger than Joe now would know what to do with. That’s the man they’re really asking to come. 

  
That man doesn’t exist any more, but still — this is something different. Something new.

*

The late afternoon sun hangs low as Joe cruises through the Massachusetts countryside. Sunlight pours through the trees, their leaves lush and prismatic while the chill of fall nips at Joe’s ears through the Lotus’ rolled down windows. 

It’s dusk by the time he rolls up outside the Kresge Auditorium, a mid-century stingray of concrete and copper. A man comes to greet him whose name Joe doesn’t quite catch, and he’s ushered into the auditorium.

_You can adjust the microphone like this, the projector switches on here, do you need any water, let's just do a quick sound check._

_This is your ten minute call, Mr. MacMillan._

Joe’s stomach lurches; it’s been a while. 

The darkness of the room is hushed and reverent, the light of the projector dazzling him. Joe can not make out any faces in the shadows — who is watching, waiting to hang on his every word.

_Deep breath._

“Let me start by asking you a question.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If/Else and If/Then are conditional statements used for, amongst other things, retrieving search engine results.](https://www.w3schools.com/js/js_if_else.asp)
> 
> [The Karl Taylor Compton Lecture Series](https://compton.mit.edu/) at the [Kresge Auditorium, MIT.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kresge_Auditorium)
> 
> This fic takes inspiration (read: Is a remix) of [ events IRL.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Google)
> 
> And lastly, I just couldn't buy the idea that Joe'd be happy sitting it out until retirement as a school teacher. Nor that Gavin Belson wasn't a shining beacon of charisma, ambition and arseholery.


	2. Chapter 2

The throng that crowds around Joe at the drinks reception leaves him heady. In a messy circle they wait their turn to give praise, ask questions and try to curry his favor.

It's intoxicating.

The night trickles on in a buzz of animated chatter until the crowd thins out to just a handful of people, many of whom have splinted off into their own small circles of heated debate. Joe is so engrossed in conversation with the Dean of Engineering that he does not notice the young man watching him.

It’s quite a while until he realises the same young man is standing next to him, waiting his turn. How long he’s been standing there, Joe doesn’t know.

In the sober light of the auditorium the face seems familiar, but something is there that wasn’t before—a confidence, perhaps. A sense of belonging; a lazer-focused gaze that's ready for a fight.

“Mr. MacMillan! Thank you so much for your wonderful presentation tonight. A fascinating talk, truly.” The young man says, tripping Joe up with an air of jarring familiarity. He cuts back in before Joe has had a chance to reply. 

“Despite the flaws in the fundamental concept, it was intensely interesting to hear the rationale behind Comet’s approach to Search straight from the horse’s mouth.” He pauses, takes a sip of wine. “I’ll admit I was surprised when I saw who it was on stage — having read so much about you I thought I would have put name to face sooner.” 

The gentle thud of the door closing echoes softly through the auditorium. They are alone.

"I'm sorry, have we met before?" Joe asks.

“In a manner of speaking. A couple of weeks ago. You didn't bother with breakfast.”

_ That doesn't narrow it down _ Joe doesn't say.

“Or with names.” The young man says.

_ Ah. _

He seems less nauseatingly young than he did at 7am—a little rougher around the edges, with a weariness in his eyes Joe hadn’t noticed before. He holds out a hand which Joe accepts, and Joe plasters on a smile to steady himself.

“Gavin Belson.” he says, and holds onto Joe’s hand just that second too long before letting go. He makes to lock eyes, but Joe’s not playing that game.

“Gavin Belson.” Joe reaffirms—the old corporate tricks never quite leave. “What an unexpected pleasure. I had no idea this was your field of expertise.”

“Well I suppose it doesn’t make for casual conversation. I will admit that I’ve surprised myself by not having recognised you—but I suppose it’s been a long time since you were on the front cover of anything.” He puts down his wine glass on the chair beside him. “Still, I have to thank you—if it wasn’t for your tenacity in keeping Comet going until the bitter end I don’t think the world would have gotten quite the taste for Search that it did. It was both entertaining and impressive to watch someone give everything they’ve got to an endeavour so evidently doomed to failure from the start."

Something in Joe starts pulsing—something that doesn’t quite have a name but that lives within every animal. Something before the fight or flight response, the thing that takes you from being ensconced in a dreamless sleep to fully alert with a pounding heart.

Gavin pauses, presses his fingertips together, then continues.

"I'm not sure what you were thinking when you assumed a small collection of human beings could index all the world's knowledge, but—"

"That wasn't what we were trying to do." Joe cuts in, feeling defensive for the first time in as long as he can remember. "We were—"

"Attempting to hand-index the exponentially growing list of all the world’s URLs? As if you were archiving library books of neatly compiled dead data rather than creating a system built to map the ever-changing landscape of all human thought and activity? Quaint, but ineffective." He smirks. Joe could punch him.

In the long and empty hallway the motion sensor lights click quietly into darkness. Later, it clicks on again. Both times, neither men notice.

“Well that was just the starting process, but—” 

"There were two core issues at the heart of Comet.” Gavin powers on. “The premise and the execution. In the last year alone the number of registered websites has increased by 334% to over  _ one hundred and twenty million _ unique URLs—Although I will admit that that's down substantially from the 996% growth of 1996. So perhaps your approach wasn’t total madness. But what were you planning to do when you needed all the same information again but in French? Or if a staffer came across a website that wasn't something anyone could neatly catalogue? Or when a link inevitably broke?”

The distant jangle of keys goes unheard by both men. From the same place in the distance the sound of a vacuum cleaner whirs into life, quiet at first but with the roar of it creeping closer like a nightmare.

Joe doesn’t hear the noise over the sound of his own heartbeat.

Gavin leaves him room to speak, shuffles his weight onto his other foot. When Joe remains in stunned silence Gavin smiles—it’s handsome and vicious, like he’s just caught prey he was hunting.

“The world wide web isn’t a self-generating entity—it is the ever-shifting distillation of all human thought which, it goes without saying, is the very basis of knowledge and thus truth. The idea that a group of individuals can curate all the world’s ever-changing knowledge is ludicrous, not to mention ethically questionable. Thus Comet’s most fatal error was treating data as if it was dead and static when it is very much alive and evolving.”

_ Checkmate, QED  _ Gavin’s expression says.

Joe has been left speechless only twice in his life before—once when he got an unexpected knock on the door from a one night stand he never expected to see again. The other from having come home from the hospital only to find out how he really fell off the roof.

The steel-gray door that stands in ugly, stark contrast to the natural wooden walls creeks open; they’re no longer alone. The janitor nods at them before wheeling the vacuum cleaner into the cavernous room. He says nothing, just plugs it in and presses on. Joe looks up at the clock—it’s gone 10.30pm.

“How are you getting home?” Joe asks, knowing he shouldn’t. He knows what Gavin’s answer should be and knows what he  _ wants _ it to be.

“Oh, um,” Gavin replies. The self-assured façade slips off, leaving the awkward young man Joe woke up to standing in front of him. “I live on campus.”

“Then let me walk you home.” Joe says, and a balance somewhere has been restored. He picks up his briefcase while Gavin picks up an enormous backpack and shuffles himself into the straps.

As they slip out the door and into the chilly September night, Gavin says “I'm finishing off my PhD at Stanford.”

This takes Joe by surprise. “And you came all the way out here just to see me talk?”

“Oh, no, I'm transferring for my final year—done my first five here at MIT. Come September I’ll be moving back West. I’m originally from San Jose, so it’s not gonna be a big adventure or anything. I’m going to roommate with my best friend—we have a few projects going on together.”

_ Oh. _

“You don't look old enough to be five years into a PhD.” Joe says. It’s not the right thing to say.

“That a plus for you?” Gavin smirks. They wander across the campus for an uncertain amount of time, Gavin leading the way until they find themselves outside the doors of the Amherst Street dorms.

Joe turns to face Gavin, who has something unbridled and almost feverish in his eyes. "I know how to make it work." he declares. Matter of fact, clear as day, with an unwavering confidence that Joe can only but envy. "I know exactly how to make Search work. And I'm going to make it happen."

Joe’s stomach twists.

"And how exactly do you envisage that going, Gavin?"

“I'll make it simple for you.” Gavin says, and the showman’s mask slips back on, his back straightening, eye on the prize.

“An index’s value comes not in the mere cataloguing of data, but in terms of the user being able to find what’s most relevant to them. Every search the user makes is a decision—an action that demonstrates relevance. And from the results returned, which URL the user then clicks on further reinforces what’s relevant. If the user then goes onto link that URL onto their website, they are making a statement of the relevance of that URL in relation to the original search term. As this pattern continues, we start to get a quantifiable value of how relevant that URL is in relation to the search term.”

In the cool Massachusetts air Joe can almost remember the heat of the Californian sun on his skin.

_ No _ he thinks, doesn’t say.  _ You promised yourself _ .

“The more frequently that URL appears across the internet the more relevant it is, thus the higher up the index it goes. As this system is both quantitative and user-driven, as opposed to your qualitative, slow and human-curated system—an algorithm can be built for it.” His lips press together in a smile, eyes glimmering. “And I’ve already written it.” He whispers.

Something inside Joe is screaming.

Gavin shifts the backpack on his shoulder “Well, it was nice meeting you, Joe. Again. Sober.” He feels for his key in his pants pocket, a grin playing on his lips. ”I look forward to seeing what you are going to do next.”

And with that, Gavin is gone.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Total number of live URLs from 1991 - 2018, including % growth.](https://www.internetlivestats.com/total-number-of-websites/)
> 
> [70 Amherst Street - a grad student dorm at MIT](https://studentlife.mit.edu/housing/graduate-family-housing/graduate-residences/70-amherst-street).
> 
> The theory Gavin is describing is based on Larry Page's initial Google algorithm [Page Rank](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/PageRank). Gavin is the true author, obviously. Larry plagiarised. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

A tepid, gray December slides into a frigid, biting January, but the months have been bleeding together like diluted watercolours since September. 

The Kresge Auditorium feels like a lifetime ago, but every time Joe’s mind trips to thinking about that night he feels that little rush shoot up from his stomach and straight into his throat. What the rush is, he couldn't say _—_ anxiety, perhaps. Or maybe a thrill. 

He doesn’t dwell on it. 

He remembers to put his extra box of chalk in a Ziplock bag this time before sliding it into his briefcase, ready for the first day of school tomorrow. He checks the pockets for detritus from last semester before lowering the lid. It shuts with a click.

Pens. Duster. Spare sheets of paper for students who’ve forgotten their notepad.

_You're 51 this year._

11 years from early retirement, 16 years from mandatory. Money in the bank, Lotus in the drive. The American dream in the silk lining of his pocket, in the luscious deep pile of his Persian rug.

 _Life is good. Quiet. Stable. No alarms, No surprises_ _, l_ _ike that new song from England_ _._ _It wasn't like this in Silicon Valley._

It _wasn't_ like this in Silicon Valley.

*

This semester's core prose, the Head of English tells Joe, is _Death Of A Salesman._

*

His parking lot space _—_ 43F _—_ has not changed in the three years he’s been here. 

He’s made his homeroom his own in that time, with plants and trinkets from his trips abroad. A small wooden elephant carving from India in ‘96, a fan from Japan last year. It takes him two flights of stairs to get there and he still has to mind the loose tile on the fourth stair on the second flight. Still no one has done anything about it.

He opens the door and the students are already seated; Justine’s fast asleep at her desk like always. Marcus has forgotten his textbook again. 

Joe doesn’t sigh. 

Armadeep is a delight to teach though, and Phil always asks at least one interesting question. 

So life isn’t _all_ bad, he supposes. 

*

The previous owners of this house left their grandfather clock which always chimes three minutes and thirty six seconds past the hour. 

It’s 8pm, Wednesday night. He’s procrastinating on tomorrow's lesson plan and his fettuccine has gone cold. 

He looks out of the window at the Lotus in the driveway. The window is open a crack and the smell of the breeze wafts through the living room. The night air is cool. Fresh. Inviting.

The clock strikes 8:03 and 36 seconds.

 _You promised yourself, Joe_. 

*

 _Well give it a week at least._ his conscious supplies as a bead of sweat drips onto the polished wood floor from his 124th push-up.

*

“Don’t forget next week’s meeting, Joe!” The principal calls out with inane and insincere cheerfulness. 

Joe smiles back with the same feeling on his face.

*

The difficult choice had been between flying or driving. In the end Joe chose the car because he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave _everything_ behind.

He should have said something to someone. Perhaps left a note so they don’t think he’s dead.

Probably.

He doesn’t rush the road trip, so it takes a week to get to California. In that time he comes to understand America like he never has before _—_ the way the hills creep up on you at the edge of Iowa. The incredible air in Nebraska. How delicious Rocky Mountain Oysters are as long as you don’t think too deeply about it.

Eventually the number of star spangled banners billowing gently on flagpoles dwindles to every other hour. A little while later, he sees the Golden Gate Bridge.

*

Once at the Bay Area everything slows down except his heart which he wills not to beat rabbit-fast. 

Taking the scenic route and a stop-off to reminisce means that he doesn’t reach Santa Clara until dusk. By the time he pulls up in-front of the newly constructed William Gates building the sun has begun to set, bathing the faux-mediterranean yellow stone brickwork in golden hues.

 _This is it_. Joe breaths. Out. In. He counts to five then turns off the ignition.

The main door is heavy and it catches Joe off guard. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s because community colleges don’t try to embed lofty and resplendent grandeur into every detail of their being.

This, Joe remembers, is Silicon Valley.

His shoes clack against the marble floors of the endless corridor, echoes bouncing from the high ceiling and cutting through the silence. A few students walk past but no one takes notice of him. No one stops to say hello.

This, Joe remembers, is Silicon Valley.

After twenty minutes of searching he doesn’t find Gavin’s office. Not that he knew what he was searching for, or if this was the right place to begin looking at all.

 _I suppose that’s the whole point_. He smiles to himself. 

He must look both aimless and like he belongs, as an older man with a white beard Joe can only assume is a professor approaches him. 

“Are you ok there?” He asks. His tone is surprisingly soft. 

“Oh, um, yes.” Joe says, pulled out of his reflections. He finds in himself somewhere his salesman smile. “I was actually looking for the office of Gavin Belson. I believe he’s tying his PhD up here. I work at MIT.” he finishes with a lie. 

“Gavin Belson…” The man ponders and _actually_ strokes his beard. “Do you know what his dissertation title is?”

 _No._ Joe realises. He doesn’t know anything about Gavin. 

“I believe it may have been on search engine design.” he pulls out of the hat. Hoping. Praying.

“I see.” The man says, lets his fingers slip from his chin. “Well I don’t know of anyone writing their dissertation on that subject, but I have heard of a recent transfer who just withdrew from his programme to develop a personal project. He may have just deferred, but knowing these kids he won’t be coming back.”

“Not coming back?” Joe replies, forces his tone level.

“Well I don’t know for sure, but it’s a bit of a trend. We’re living in Gold Rush times.” he chuckles.

“Do you know where I could find him?” Joe asks. It’s a desperate plea, but he rounds the corners to make it sound like a question.

“Well I don’t have his address, but these kids generally end up around Menlo Park in someone’s mom’s basement. I’m sure if you ask around you’ll find someone who knows someone who knows him.” 

Joe doesn’t scream. 

“Thanks for your time.” Joe smiles, hand sliding into his pocket and clenching around his car keys. The steel teeth of it cut into his palm.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_No Surprises_ by Radiohead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5CVsCnxyXg) came out in January 1998.
> 
> [Iowa is, apparently, not as flat as many people think.](https://geology.com/topographic-physical-map/iowa.shtml)
> 
> [Rocky Mountain Oysters.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rocky_Mountain_oysters)
> 
> [The William Gates Computer Science Building](https://cs.stanford.edu/about/gates-computer-science-building), completed in January 1996.


	4. Chapter 4

In a dawning moment of clarity Joe realises that—in all his time in Silicon Valley—he’s never been to Menlo Park.

He coasts through the winding roads of the Stanford campus and onto the 82, cruising past one Caltrain station after another until he rolls to a stop at a large intersection. It’s eerily quiet.

The traffic light turns green, and then it clicks—It’s very late and he has nowhere to go.

With no better plan he turns around, hoping to find something he can’t quite name. A sense of familiarity, perhaps. A sign. Or a fucking hotel, at least.

But somewhere along the way he takes a wrong turn and ends up in a dense forest of houses, the babble of a shallow creek creeping through his window. A quiet panic starts bubbling in his ribcage—low-key at first—then snaking around his heart and gripping it tight. His neck starts to prickle and the sound of the creek amplifies from a distant murmur to an all-engulfing roar.

He slams the break and the Lotus screeches. He can’t catch his breath but he tries anyway: Out. In. Nirvana. Samsara.

Later, when his heart has settled back to a gentle pound, he opens his eyes. A harsh yellow light blares into his vision—he’s outside a 7/11. He hasn’t eaten since morning.

Inside the fluorescent lights kill all subtlety and warmth, leaving only ghostly reflections and cold, hard shadows. In the sad looking countertop sits an even sadder looking pizza, God knows how old but also heavy and greasy and warm. He buys two slices and eats it straight out the microwave, burning the roof of his mouth. 

“Fuck”, he says, and the cashier asks if he’s alright. _Just great thanks_ sits ready on his tongue, but he’s too tired to lie right now.

“Do you know of any hotels around here?” he replies instead.

The cashier grabs a napkin and a pen and sketches out a rough map. The paper tears as he draws a sharp right turn, but the message gets across all the same. Joe shows his teeth when he smiles and slips the napkin into his pocket. 

*

It turns out that Joe _has_ been to Menlo Park before, but like a hundred other lost days the memory was washed away in a fever dream of skin and lights and something bitter on his tongue that made him feel sweet. Who he was with or how he got home are details he doesn’t remember, but the Santa Fe ceiling texture is. This is not the first time he’s been in this _Four Seasons_ hotel.

His tie is loose but his shirt is still buttoned as he slides his arms under his head, toes brushing the thick wool pile of the carpet whilst he sinks back into the Egyptian cotton sheets. The ceiling fan putters gently round, shadows cascading onto the wall. 

The digital clock blinks a shy 1:43am. He sighs deeply—in a few more hours he will begin again.

*

A wool suit, Joe remembers now, has no place in a Californian March.

It may only be 59° outside but he’s got the air-con on, his body acclimatized to biting winters and tepid springs that barely scrape into the 40s. He’s got a hot cup of coffee in the front seat holder. It’s creeping towards midday and Joe forgot how bright it gets here, the glare from the sun turning his bonnet into a mirror, almost blinding him. 

He makes a left and then another, but it’s no use. Every street looks the same—he’s orienteering without a map. Sighing, he pulls a right and can’t help but smirk when he sees the street name— _Santa Margarita Avenue_. A shipreck. A matyr. A venerable disaster, ruined by faith and belief and unabated lust for all that glitters. Fucking _poetry._

Amongst the homogenous blur of yellow brick and white-painted steel flashes a brilliant pop of colour. Stenciled neatly in crimson on one of the garage doors is a single word— _VidClone._

Joe kills the engine. Suddenly the Merino wool jacket is _too much_ —he pulls it off in a frenzy, the shoulder pad catching on his elbow and smacking his arm into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t swear.

This must be a sign. A clue. A _something_.

As he works to make sense of it all the door lurches open with a creaking whine. A tall man with slouching shoulders shuffles out and doesn’t squint in the sunlight—his gaze seems to wander, as if directionless but searching for something to lock onto. Joe can almost hear a robotic sensor beeping at a quickening pace, like a bomb counting down. His cream chinos and a taupe sweater age him, but he has a soft face and a caution to his movement that Joe took a long time himself to grow out of.

Then, as if target acquired, he notices Joe and _stares_. Joe’s fingertips tingle; he smiles, but the man doesn’t reciprocate. Joe palms at the car key and readies to turn it, but then everything, everywhere stops. 

Emerging from the garage—wearing baggy pants and a thoughtful expression—is none other than Gavin fucking Belson.

*

Joe’s coffee has gone cold. His hands rest on his thighs. He is making a point of breathing. 

_A journey does not end once you’ve reached your destination_ his mind supplies. He has travelled so far, but it’s all just been a prelude—a high from the fumes of ambition and adventure and the feeling of death creeping ever closer no matter how hard he tries to outrun it.

_You’ve come this far, but you’ve also got nowhere to go back to._

Breath out. In. He grabs his briefcase and opens the car door.

His knuckles rap on the cold steel once, twice, and then...a silent nothing. The lilting chirrup of a goldfinch rings in his ears. Beyond the door Joe hears terse mutterings, but outside it everything is still. 

A minute passes, then another. He can’t give up now, he _can’t._ He bites the inside of his cheek (a habit from childhood that never quite left him). _Think, Joe, think._

He’s so ensnared in his own ruminations that it takes him by surprise when the door groans open like a drawbridge.

The young man from earlier stands before him and immediately latches onto Joe’s gaze, holding it in a deadlock with a wordless _why are you here?_ Joe holds the stare right back—he’s not going to be the one strong-armed here. He puts his briefcase on the ground.

“May I help you?” he asks. His voice is...reedy. No, that’s not it. There’s strength to it, there’s real power, but also a hesitance. Unease. A sense that having to be in his front yard, challenging a stranger to state their purpose, is excruciating.

Joe lets a beat pass and then another before he begins.

“Yes you can. In fact, you’re exactly the person I want to speak to.” Neither of them have backed down from the staring contest, but Joe is starting to wonder if this man is challenging him or if he’s really just this fucking creepy. Joe holds out a hand—an armistice—but the man doesn’t take it. Alright then. 

“I believe you may know the whereabouts of someone I’m looking to speak to. His name is Gavin Belson and I—”

“Gavin!” he yells, cutting through Joe, clearly wanting this to end. The sound is stuttered and high, something you could mistake as being tinged with panic. “There is a gentleman in the drive who wishes to speak to you!” He abruptly turns around and walks back into the dim light of the garage—script executed, function resolved. 

Soft-soled steps pad towards him on the concrete floor, coming closer until finally, _finally_ , Joe gets what he came for. 

“Holy _shit.”_ Gavin says in almost a whisper, eyes wide and jaw slack. “ _Joe_ _Macmillan_?”

Joe’s younger self would have a quip up his sleeve, a retort in his pocket. Joe’s younger self would have been _prepared_ , a jaguar ready to ambush from the darkness and crush the throat of its prey.

But despite how long the road has been—how many hours this journey has taken, how much time he’s had to arrange his thoughts and feelings and assemble his plans—he finds that the words won’t come.

“Did you follow me to my _house_?” Gavin says, words hissing out through a snarl.

 _Did you actually think he’d be happy to see you?_ Joe’s conscious supplies. He ignores it. He only feels a little hysterical, but now is not the time to let his guard down. 

“Gavin Belson,” Joe starts, fanning his hands between them, claiming the space. “When you came to see me you presented me not only with an idea, but with a _vision_ —a vision so powerful, so profound that it would make you the laughing stock of all the VCs in Silicon Valley.” He rotates his hands, cups them— _I’m being open and vulnerable with you_.

“Gavin Belson—when you came to see me, you presented me not only with a vision, but with a _future_ —a future that you know is coming, that _you alone_ can make happen. A future that will change every detail of every moment of how we live our lives—from how a mother feeds her child to if a business thrives or fails. You, Gavin Belson, are not only at the precipice, but you _are_ the precipice—in your mind is a New World Order, and at your fingertips is the power to make it happen.” 

He brings his palms flat together, a closing prayer, _I am being sincere and exposed with you_. He looks Gavin in the eye. “Gavin Belson—after everything you said, I couldn’t let your vision, your future, _you_ , slip by. So I made sure I didn’t.” He lets his hands fall to his side. Breath out. Breath in. Samsara. Nirvana.

The air is cool and still and gentle. An orange-tinged dusk blanches all the shadows to a soft cotton of yellow-gold. The birds have settled down for the night and a breeze whistles softly down the wide, empty road.

“What the fuck.” Gavin says.

Powering on, Joe learned long ago, is sometimes the only way to move things forward. 

“With all this in mind, I’ve come to see your prototype and, if you haven’t already got one, help you develop a viable go-to-market strategy, of which I have substantial—”

“ _What_ prototype?” Gavin says, his tone straining on the edge of hysterical. “And _how_ did you find me _?_ ”

“Gavin,” he says softly. This won’t go anyway until Joe can get him to calm the fuck down. “It’s nothing suspicious. I just did a little asking around at Stanford—where _you_ told me you were—and got an answer after speaking to a couple of your old professors. One of them gave me your address.”

Gavin squints, but he also tumbles into a pause, uncertain. After a beat he asks, eyes narrowed, “Which one?”

“Donno, didn’t catch his name.”

The silence is a stand-off. Joe says nothing, gives Gavin the space to assess him, to trust his own judgement. Eventually, with a heaving sigh, the ice between them breaks. He looks down at his shoes.

“It’s just an idea.” he murmurs, low. “There is no prototype.”

Joe balks. No, he did _not_ drive across an entire continent for that answer. “Why not?”

“Because it’s just an idea, ok? Just, like, at the concept stage. I’m working on other things—something else.”

“You’re telling me,” Joe says, fingernails digging into his palms. “That inside your mind is the blueprint for a global revolution and you are working on _something else?_ ”

Gavin’s chest rises. Falls. “What are you actually here for, Joe?" He asks quietly, as much a challenge as an accusation. "Some kind of adventure? Something to invest in, perhaps?”

It's too close to the bone, but Joe can salvage this. 

“No, Gavin." He stands up a little straighter. "I came to see what you were capable of.”

In the beat of silence, thick and heavy, Joe picks up his briefcase. “You lied to me.”

“Wuh...what? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Joe's hand slides into his pocket and feels for his key, sliding his fingers over the teeth and feeling them bite as he stalks towards the car. Not looking back, he says, “You said you’d already written it. 

“Wait!” Joe hears as he slides the key in the Lotus’ door. He pauses but doesn’t turn around.

“Look, I just—I wasn’t expecting anyone to be interested in this—to like, care about this, ok? Not now—not yet. It’s not really ready or anything, but I can load up what I’ve already wri—”

Joe nearly scratches the paintwork.

“Show me.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Santa Fe ceiling texture (3rd one down)](http://roadrunnerdrywall.com/customized-finishes/)
> 
> _Santa Margarita_ , so Wikipedia tells me, can mean a variety of things. 
> 
> [The Google Garage](https://www.sanjose.org/listings/google-garage), now unsurprisingly a massive tourist attraction, is on 232 Santa Margarita Avenue in Menlo Park.
> 
> [The Santa Margarita Shipwreck](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Margarita_\(shipwreck\)) was a Spanish ship that sank in 1622 with "an enormous cargo of plundered New World treasure".
> 
> And, of course, [Santa Margarita herself.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaret_the_Virgin)


	5. Chapter 5

“You live here?”

“Not as such.”

“Not technically speaking. But he sleeps here quite often.” The weird guy from earlier pipes up, not looking away from his iMac.

“Ah, my apologies, I haven’t introduced you two yet. How rude of me.” Gavin says. “Joe, this is Peter Gregory. My business associate.”

“Peter Gregory.” Joe echos with a smile. He doesn’t offer a hand this time. “A pleasure. Joe MacMillan.”

“I know who you are. We _all_ know who you are.”

The late afternoon sun limns the room in gold and makes everything seem warmer than it is. Joe left his jacket in the car but he’s in too deep to turn back now.

“Anyway, yes. This is where the magic happens.” Gavin says with a languid wave of a hand and a smile that’s almost too bright; for a moment everything feels warm again. 

“Show me what you’re working on.” Joe says softly.

The three PCs on Gavin’s workbench sit naked with their chassis walls removed. There are candy wrappers and paper cups strewn around the table and indelible coffee rings decorate the wood like faded tattoos. Sandwiched in between two monitors stand two plastic figurines, held down with poster putty.

“Who are they?” Joe asks. 

“Oh, that’s Iceman.” Gavin points to the frosty blue figure who’s wearing what looks like a head to toe lycra body suit. He then points to one in the somewhat more sensible black and white one-piece. “And that’s Northstar.”

“Right.”

The cheap office chair Gavin wheels over creeks with age and shoddy workmanship. He slides into it. “This idea first came to me when I started playing _Pilgrim_ on my Compaq Contura. Frankly I was amazed it loaded up at all—I didn’t think a demo that old would be forwards compatible.”

“You’ve played Pilgrim?” Joe says, dumbfounded. “How?”

“How what? How did I get a copy? A, uh, good friend of mine worked for Atari. Knew I liked that sorta thing. He probably could have gotten into big trouble, but we were pretty close back then and he was the curious sort.” He switches the machine on. A red light blinks and the screen yawns awake. “I found it rather interesting, overall. Took me a few tries, but I completed it on my third attempt. The plot twist? _Spectacular_.”

“But here’s the thing—since I purchased this machine, hardware prices have halved while processing power has doubled. However, video game graphics haven’t kept up. Do you see where I’m going with this?” He types in his password and Joe is surprised by the plainness of the muted, corporate teal of the default desktop. He wasn’t sure what else he was expecting.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Really? I thought you of all people could smell a new opportunity like blood in the water.” He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a grey box. “I’m working on bridging the gap in the market between what there is and what there needs to be.” 

“Gavin.” Peter interjects. “I am not confident you should be showing _that_ man your prototype.”  
  
“Peter. Greatness does not stay locked away in a closet.”

“But that is most definitely a drawer.”

Gavin ignores him and lifts the lid. Inside lies a small green circuit board around the size of Joe’s palm resting on a bed of cotton wool, with what appears to be—

“Is that a...fan? Glued on?”

“Not glued on; hardwired in.” He says, lifting the circuit board out of the box. “And this is not just any fan on any board—this is an unparalleled visual computing experience. Four megabytes of extended RAM, a frame buffer processor and a texture mapping unit that puts an end to stuttering. If we can tap into even 2% of the projected domestic PC units forecast to hit the US market within the next 2 years, we would have generated enough profit to focus 100% on Search. Welcome, Joe, to the next generation of graphics cards.” Gavin beams triumphantly. 

Joe, somehow, doesn’t scream. 

“So let me get this straight.” he begins, only just managing to keep the trembling fury out of his voice. “At your fingertips right now is the next printing press, the next lightbulb, the next internal combustion engine, and you’re planning to waste _two_ years shifting fans on a board?”

It goes from cool to cold in the call of nightfall, the setting of the sun cloaking everything in shadows. In the watery light Gavin is all ivory skin and deep eyes and chapped lips from where he bites them.

“Hey, Peter.” Gavin says. “Turn on the light, will you?”

The room is drowned in a brutal fluorescence that blinds Joe for a second and grounds him to the spot, leaving him blinking rapidly.

“Gavin. What is he doing here.” Peter asks. It’s not a question. 

“I don’t know.” Gavin replies, turning to look Joe in the eye. “He doesn’t seem to want to tell us.”

_No, I am not falling for this._

“Gavin. You don’t have time for this. Trust me.” His scars pull tight in phantom pain. “Forget about the fan board and focus on your platform. Do anything you can, anything you _must_ , to make someone in the Valley cut you a cheque. Then get the fuck on with changing the world.”

Outside the goldfinches have stopped singing. 

“How much?” Joe asks after the silence has gone on long enough.

Gavin blinks and shakes his head. “Excuse me?”

“How much money do you need? To get started on building a prototype?”

“We have already built a prototype.” Peter says. “You were just observing it.”

“Not the circuit board fan thing, the—”

“Graphics card.” Peter corrects.

“Graphics card, right. Not that. The Search platform. The whole point of the graphics cards is to build capital for the Search project, right? Why not just skip that whole part?”

Gavin’s lips form a hard line. “Because we’ve already started it and we can’t just not finish it.”

Joe’s stomach roils, but he has one final card to play.

“Which machines are the graphics cards compatible with?"

“I...What?” 

“Do they integrate with IBM machines? Could a brand new PC roll off the production line with a Vidclone graphics card built into it?”

“They have been primarily designed for IBM clones.” Peter interjects.

“Right, right. But what if every official IBM came straight off the shelf one pre-installed?” 

“Will you get the fuck out?” Gavin says, his voice a tangle of rage and incredulity and something too high pitched to tell. He points at the door with a fling of an arm. “Just...get the fuck out!”

“Gavin, I-”

“ _Now!_ ”

The garage door whirs open and reveals the void of the dark spring evening. He grabs his briefcase and walks out without so much as a look of goodbye. The door seems to close with a slam that echoes on for eons until it’s quiet enough to hear the cicadas.

Breath in. Breath out. Nirvana. Samsara.

_Well, it’s not a no._

_*_

In Silicon Valley, electronic component stores sell soldering irons.

In Silicon Valley, optics is everything.

*

The filofax in his hand Is heavy with regrets.

He sinks low into the hotel mattress as he turns the cellphone over in his palm. How many people will pick up the receiver, he wonders. How many still will slam it straight down.

He thumbs through the yellowing pages with measured intent, the paper crackling with weary fragility. The faded gold emboss mocks him, the sheen worn from the “B” and the “M”, but somehow still bright on the “I”.

 _Abigail Bowing_. Worked her way up from the typing pool then fucked her way up the final rung. Knew every skeleton in every closet and let her tongue loose after only two glasses of cheap merlot. 

Could be useful, but she was still his father’s secretary and that makes his skin _crawl_.

 _Harry Matthews_. The Spassky to his Fischer. Harry’s smile was as smug as his suit was sharp, having cut his teeth in the boiler room perfecting the art of the dial-and-smile.

No arena of combat was too petty for Harry. He had to buy bigger, drink faster, lift heavier than everyone, and Joe could never, ever let him. Harry started hitting the gym five times a week, so Joe had to hit it six, getting a glimpse of Harry’s six-pack more than once and taking the image home with him.

Of course, he had to have the prettiest girlfriend who became the sexiest wife, then a year later the hottest mom. He’s probably traded her in for a younger model now—her and the second Ferrari. 

Tempting, certainly. But probably too straight a nut for even Joe to crack.

He strokes the thick, ageing paper with the pad of his thumb and lies back, letting his eyes find patterns in the ceiling. This could all go horribly wrong, but it’s not like he’s got any better options. 

He sits up again with agitation and starts from the back this time. Breath in. Breath out. Nirvana. Sams—

_Ryan Wallis._

_*_

The dive bar is too loud, too emphatically heterosexual. Joe’s heels rip off the sticky floor as he grips tight to a half-dozen deal of canned Coors Light. Tomorrow his clothes will smell of this place and his fingernails will be inexplicably dirty. 

It’s perfect. 

He slides into the stall next to Ryan and casually rests an elbow on the bar. “So. Head of division _and_ regional sales manager, huh. Just look at you.” He flashes the brightest smile he can summon from his arsenal.

“You haven’t changed at all.” Ryan grins, thumb stroking through the can’s condensation.

“But you have—and you finally got that haircut. Took you long enough.” He leans back with another smile, makes it cheeky. The stall creaks. “Looks good.”

The corner of Ryan’s lips twitch, but he looks away. “Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. That was really a surprise.”

“A pleasant one, I hope.”

“A surprising one.”

Joe takes a sip—the can is the worst sort of clammy-cold. “I was amazed your number still worked.” Ryan gives Joe a look that lives somewhere between quizzical and amused, hiding a smirk behind curled fingers. Joe’s heart jumps. _Don’t lose it now_.

“Can’t a man want to catch up with a friend?” Joe says, steadies his tone.

“You’re no ordinary man, Joe.” Ryan says. Joe’s gaze flickers at the sad bowl of peanuts sitting between them and wonders how many fingers have been in it. He looks back up at Ryan.

“So, how’d you make it to Head of Division? Pulled an Abby Bowing?” he teases, picking up a new can.

“Come on now, that’s not fair. I work hard. We can’t all be water.”

“Water?”

“Seeking the path of least resistance.”

It shouldn’t sting and yet it does, but he can’t turn back now. _Aim for the jugular._

“In that case, you’re going to want to see this.” Joe says. He lifts his briefcase to the table, lets the clasps fling open with a dramatic click. He takes out the expensive black box nestled inside with a practiced, somber reverence. Ryan reaches out.

“No, don’t touch it.” Joe says. “It’s delicate. And,” He lifts the pieced-together fanboard from the box as if it were the Cullinan Diamond and looks Ryan in the eye. “What I have in my hands is not just a new computing component, but a revolution in the graphic user interface experience. With this, IBM customers will never have to suffer through lagging screens, howling fans or even blue screens of death ever again.” He rotates the board 180°, lets Ryan catch every angle. “You don’t need me to tell you that IBM will have a fight on its hands to keep hold of the throne in the coming years. Well, this is not only an unbreakable shield, but a deadly sword.”

A nervous snort huffs out of Ryan’s nose, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the fanboard. Joe leans in. “I’d like to tell you more, but it would need to be somewhere private. How about you come by my hotel room tonight and I’ll let you in on everything.” 

_*_

On any other morning he would have called the air crisp, but the sun has barely been up for a couple of hours and it’s already starting to cloy. This morning’s headache started at his temples and creeped its way round to pound right between his eyes.

He wonders if it’s too early but has a hunch that Gavin’s already up. He knocks on the garage door twice—it stays shut, and for a minute Joe begins to doubt himself. But just as he starts to feel his hand wrap nervously around his car keys, the front door house creaks open. 

Gavin’s stands on the porch squinting at the sun in little more than a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt that’s too loud to look at before a second cup of coffee. Joe can’t tell if he’s just woken up or if he never went to sleep.

“What the f—” 

Joe doesn’t let him finish that sentence, striding up to him with every inch of his 6’2” frame. “You have 48h to get your pitch deck ready and your suit dry cleaned.”

Gavin’s hair sticks upwards and droops to the left, like a mohawk that’s run out of power. He blinks at Joe with his mouth hanging open, eyebrows furrowing. Joe pulls out a copy of the fax he received yesterday from Ryan and hands it to Gavin—an invitation to pitch to the New Product Development team down in San Jose.

Joe gives him a moment. Gavin looks down at the paper and his eyes go impossibly wide. “I... _what_ —”

“See you at the reception desk at 12pm sharp. Be ready. This chance won’t come again.” He turns back to the Lotus with a deliberate swagger, the rush of blood in his ears blocking out the thumping of his panicking heart.

_*_

It’s 11:47 and he’s still alone.

He stopped biting his nails in senior year but his left leg bounces against the marble floor, his heel clacking with vigour and echoing through the opulent reception. Light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and shines off the verdant leaves of exotic plants that have been calculatingly placed to breathe a facade of life into the sterile, barren whiteness.

He will not allow this moment to feel seminal. He will not reflect on how he has given up everything to chase the vapour trails of a boy with a cute face and a bright idea. He will not let himself acknowledge what little chance this has of working, or how this has nothing to do with money and everything to do with looking in the mirror and seeing the reflection of a man who will amount to nothing more than a footnote buried in the archives of history.

At 11:53 an ancient beige Honda Accord squeaks it’s way into the parking lot, achingly conspicuous amongst the Audis and Porsches. The door groans open and Gavin steps out—his suit jacket is too short at the wrists and the pants are a different shade of black. Worse, still his shoes are an uncoordinated brown. Still, he’s holding a presentation folder that looks like real leather and Peter is notably missing, so that’s half the battle won.

The flood of relief is palpable as Gavin walks through the door, but Joe would rather drown than show it. “You came” He says, betraying himself. Gavin doesn’t quite meet his eye.

“You are lucky that this,” he waves the fax printout in front of him. “Checks out.” He looks around the room and takes everything in with wide eyes, before turning back to Joe and giving him a pointed stare. “I don’t trust you.”

Joe, somehow, manages to keep his cool. “You’re late.” he says.

Gavin shrugs. “Took a while to find.”

“Regardless, we don’t have time to rehearse. Give me the elevator pitch.”

“The what?”

A woman’s voice calls out their names across the foyer and Joe’s gaze follows the voice. Her red lipstick pops against her tanned skin, angled bob framing her face in a youthful way. She walks up to them with a polite smile and Gavin freezes, as if it’s finally hit him what’s about to happen.

“The Board are ready to see you now, Mr. Belson.”

_*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The graphics card mentioned is based on [The 1999 Nvidia GeForce 256 DDR](https://mybroadband.co.za/news/hardware/196964-how-graphics-cards-have-evolved-over-the-years.html). I cheated a little as this model was released in 1999 and this chapter is set in 1998.
> 
> [Iceman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iceman_\(Marvel_Comics\)) and [Northstar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northstar_\(comics\)) are two openly gay male characters from X-Men. Whilst I’m not sure if their sexuality had been made explicit by 1998, X-Men was always good at queer rep for it’s context. Also, Gavin is a n3rd. 
> 
> [Spassky vs Fischer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Chess_Championship_1972) was a politically significant World Chess Championship tournament that took place between Boris Spassky (USSR) and Bobby Fischer (USA) against the backdrop of the Cold War.
> 
> [The Cullinan Diamond](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cullinan_Diamond), also known as The Star of Africa, is a big ass fancy gem-grade mega-diamond.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This fic is not dead. I'm in the process of dismantling my life and moving country. Updates will be slow and steady rather than thick and fast.

“You ok? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah, just…I’m fine. Thank you.” Gavin says, giving the bottom of his mug the thousand mile stare.

The coffee shop’s the kind that’s springing up all over the Valley—as corporate as any tech behemoth but with gaudy canvas prints and strategically arranged peace lilies as an attempt to hide the soullessness. The coffee itself is not worth the price, but it’s quiet and easy and Gavin might have collapsed if Joe hadn’t sat him down.

“We all forget things when we’re nervous.”

Gavin lift his bloodshot eyes and glares. “Not your own company _name_.” He pushes the heel of his palms into his eyes. “Jesus.”

Joe slouches into the faux-leather sofa. He doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t scream. Behind him rises the thick and heavy fog of vapour trails he’s chased to reach this monumental point of failure.

Ahead of him—a void.

“Look. I…” Gavin starts. “I...thanks. I guess. For doing this.” He runs a hand through his hair with a deep sigh and meets Joe’s eyes. His skin is fresh but his eyes are so tired. “But, you know. Like, why.”

Joe takes in Gavin’s face—his high cheekbones and his plump bottom lip. Even now, after everything, there is something about Gavin that Joe knows he wants to take a part of—to _be_ part of. He meets Gavin’s gaze with his own.

“Because it was the best idea I had going at the time.”

Gavin’s mug thuds down on the table. “Fuck you.”

*

The filofax lies heavy against his chest like a bible waiting to take a bullet. The blinds are drawn and the lights are off, the last vestiges of dusk peaking through the gaps. If he stares for long enough the formless shapes of the Santa Fe ceiling texture start to take on meaning.

Between his knuckles Joe rolls a string of worry beads. He wants to be angry. He _is_ angry, but the finger of blame can only point in one direction, and right now it may as well be a pistol. 

Tomorrow. He can’t stomach thinking about tomorrow; the interminable drive home only to come back to a cavernous house and an empty future. He’d only just gotten used to the Californian sun on his skin again.

He breathes and breathes and _breathes_ but the tempered rhythm refuses to stay steady, each exhalation blowing out with the force of a panic attack...

Which, he realises, is exactly what’s happening.

He startles bolt upright, the filofax hitting the carpet with a dull thud. His fingers flex into the bed sheet, his toes curl tight into the comforter. He tries to hold himself together, but can feel something welling up in his chest - something he hasn’t felt since he woke up in the hospital with his skin on fire and his mother nowhere to be seen. 

He cries.

*

In the morning Joe folds his shirts instead of rolling them, crams his socks into his sneakers without paring them together. It takes a bit of pressing to close the lid but he manages it, the click of the clasp final and resolute. 

He sits on the bed, staring at nothing. Check out was ten minutes ago, but in the three weeks and thousands of dollars he’s been here he’s sure they’ll be lenient with him. 

And if not, well. He still has his smile at least.

When the elevator reaches the first floor the bellhop waves Joe a cheerful goodbye and wishes him a pleasant journey onwards. At the reception desk, the assistant gives him a perfected smile.

“It’s been a pleasure having you, Mr. MacMillian. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay with us.” She says as he hands her back the key.

“An absolute delight, Marianne. I will certainly miss seeing you every morning.” He says, handing over his credit card.

“We certainly look forward to seeing you soon. Oh and by the way,” she says, handing him a folded card. “You have a message.”

Joe’s brow creases as he walks to the sofa and sits down. He opens the card and scans it. His eyes go wide.

_Call me asap - GB_

He reads it again, then a final time just to make sure. He blinks and pulls his cell phone out of his jacket, flips it open—six missed calls from this morning alone. He dials back and it’s not even one ring before the receiver clicks.

“Where have you _been_?” Gavin says, voice frantic. “Do you keep a cell phone just for show? Do you know how much it costs to dial? Jesus, Pete’s mom is gonna kill me.” 

Before Joe can reply, Gavin continues. “They said yes.”

Joe blinks. “To the graphics card?”

“No, to _VidClone_. They want to buy VidClone. They want to buy my company—my actual fucking company! The _entire fucking thing_.”

It feels almost like the exact moment he fell off the roof.

“Joe,” Gavin says, sounding breathless and harried and so, so young. “What the fuck do I do?”

Joe’s hand drifts to the handle of his suitcase, his eyes to the reception desk. He decides that tomorrow he will have his suit dry-cleaned.

*

\- Interlude -

The concrete chill of the garage floor seeps through Gavin’s t-shirt. Forty six point three fahrenheit, he estimates, is the surface temperature of the floor, give or take a decimal point. 

Not that close enough is good enough, but he’s been awake for thirty seven hours so will allow himself the indulgence of error.

Through the window, astronomical twilight is swallowed whole by night proper. Gavin glances up at the ceiling—there’s rot in the hip rafter and a crack in the cassis of the door’s motor that has expanded by a sixteenth of an inch since Friday. He can fix it all but he is not going to make it his problem. When black mould and fractured machines become the distant past, he will purchase Mrs. Gregory a new garage. 

No, a new house. As a thank you. As a start.

A spider has built her web in the corner. Nine mooring threads supporting fifteen radial and seven framework, finished with a Fibonacci sequence of a capture spiral—all of it stronger than steel. He imagines an earthquake, of flimsy human structures crumbling. He imagines harvesting the strength of spider silk and beating nature at her own game, surviving the apocalypse in a cocoon he’s spun himself.

Tomorrow, the ink of his pen will dry onto a contract that dictates his future. His signature will be indelible.

The room is silent save for the purr of the servers. He knows he should get up off the floor and into his cot, but the cold of the ground is comforting.

-

*

Joe’s been back in California not even six months and already he feels the chill in the tepid September air.

Joe has guided VidClone into IBM’s jaws; it’s now officially another tiny footnote in the sprawling history of Silicon Valley. He can tell that this is Gavin’s first flirtation with wealth, and knows that neither of them will see any of it—it will all go back into breathing life into Search. 

They’re both so tired already, but there’s no time to rest or celebrate. They’ve trekked the thousand miles to the base of the mountain and now the summit must be conquered.

*

Peter fidgets with the stem of his wine glass, his eyes darting around the room like a chameleons. The air is scented, the morsels of food paired by the sommelier dainty and expensive and unsatisfying. Gavin shifts his weight from side to side in the high backed leather upholstery, lips poised in a tight little pout. The boys had suggested going somewhere close by, but Joe had insisted on this place—they need to get used to it if they want to succeed.

“So what exactly is a ‘Hooli’?” Joe asks over his Napa Valley Zinfandel. 

“Not what. Where.” Gavin says, frowning as the toothpick he attempts to lance a pimento stuffed olive, which slides off it’s plump skin. He looks back at Joe. “Hooli is one of India’s oldest villages. In Hooli still stands the Hooli Panchalingeshwara Temple—one of the oldest and important temples to Shiva in the country. It stands over 700 years old.” He lets the toothpick fall onto the table with a clack. “To this day people rest inside the stone building on scorching summer days.”

Gavin takes a sip of his wine. “Can you imagine creating something that is still not only relevant in 700 years but still in use, affecting the everyday lives of ordinary people?” He runs his thumb up and down the stem of his glass, holding Joe’s gaze. “I like how the world ‘Panchalingeshwara’ rolls around on the tongue, but no one would know how to spell that.”

“They would not.” Peter says. “I proposed a name indicative of the overwhelming quantitative nature of the results users could expect from conducting a search, but Gavin does not approve of the name ‘Googol’.”

“It sounds stupid, that’s why.” Gavin snorts.

Peter looks between Gavin and Joe before settling his gaze somewhere into the middle distance. Then, abruptly, he stands up. “It is getting rather late. I shall take my leave.” He grabs his briefcase. “Gavin, I shall wait by the car outside for you.”

“Oh I’m gonna stay awhile, iron out a few minor details.” Gavin waves his hand casually over some invisible trick on the table. 

Peter blinks. “But how do you intend to get home?” 

“Stop worrying. I will be alive tomorrow.”

Peter frowns. Or at least Joe thinks it’s a frown. “Very well. I shall see you in the morning.”

Peter walks out and Gavin turns towards Joe, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. It occurs to Joe that there is no music playing in the bar.

“So,” Gavin says. “How’d you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Find me.”

Joe cradles the bowl of the glass in one hand and swirls it absently. “I meant what I said—it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Gavin says, leaning in. “Menlo Park is a long way from Massachusetts.”

Joe places his free palm flat on the table, lets his fingertips brush against Gavin’s hand. “You of all people should know that refusing to answer a calling is another way of dying early.” 

Gavin’s smirk turns into a grin. “So I’m a calling now?”

Joe leans in closer. “A siren.”

“Leading you to your untimely demise?” Gavin leans back, lets out a sharp bullet of a laugh. His grin softens into a contented little smile. "And you still haven’t answered the question.”

Joe looks Gavin up and down, takes him all in. Thinks about everything they’ve achieved and how it’s only just the beginning. Of how his skin is looser than used to be and of how Gavin still can barely grow a beard. Of how he’s closer in age to retiring and that Gavin’s life is only just beginning. 

Fuck it. 

He leans in. “Come home with me and I’ll give you an answer.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anatomy of a spider’s web.](https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Schematic-diagram-of-a-spider-web_fig1_262813584)
> 
> [Hooli](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hooli). There is no canon lore from HBO that suggests this is the origin of the name ‘Hooli’, but I think it fits nicely with Gavin’s Orientalist tendencies. 


End file.
